Even though I told everyone I was happy, I wasn't. I was not okay, I was not. My mind was a prison cell, and my heart was the prisoner. And the crime that I committed was, being alive. I never left my house, unless it was to go to school. I hardly ever ate, yet I was still fat. People would tell me that I was beautiful, but why would I believe them if I knew that it wasn't true and that they were lying to me. I hated myself, I also hated every one around me, apart from my one best friend, and him.
He is the only reason I'm still here, I owe my life to him. It was just so hard to not think about all the negative things in life. I wanted to be high. I wanted to be drunk. I wanted to forget pain. But the problem with pain is that, It demands to be felt.
I am writing this as the tears come racing down my face, the salty taste of them get caught in my lip line and the rest reach my chin and drip like a leaking tap. My tears remind me of the happiness that I should of felt. It also makes me think about how lucky I am to have the greatest person in the entire world make me smile everyday. But then I think about other girls, and how they see him way more than I ever will. They make him laugh, they make him smile, they make him him happy.
Now don't get me wrong, all I live for is to make sure that he's happy. Which is confusing because I'll probably never see him again when I move back to England. Or when he moves back to France, if he ever does. And wherever he goes he is going to meet pretty girls, he's going to love them and talk to them and make them smile. The thought of him with someone that isn't me makes me sad, jealous and forgotten. But you can't just make people notice you, it doesn't work that way.
"Suicide doesn't end the pain. It just passes it on to someone else."
